


Forfeit All My Lives (To Get Just One Right)

by waltzmatildah



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/pseuds/waltzmatildah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He really doesn't think that the handful of beers he consumed last night justify the downright <b>foul</b> hangover he seems to have landed himself.</i> Alex and George in an elevator. But not all is as it seems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forfeit All My Lives (To Get Just One Right)

  
**Part One**   


 

Alex is leaned up against the rear wall of the elevator when the doors being to close. The sudden sight of a jacketed forearm, followed closely by a pushing, tripping, falling body slamming through the narrowing gap at the very last minute is shocking enough to have him squinting his eyes a little further open in confusion.

 _Oh._

It's just O'Malley, and really, he shouldn't be surprised. O'Malley seems to share most of his elevator rides these days.

“Real smooth, bambi,” he grinds out, letting his eyes slide closed again. His brain is pounding a marching band beat in his head and he feels, honest to God, like actual shit so, anything more articulate than that fizzles and dies on his tongue.

George huffs out a resigned sigh as he pokes at the buttons on the wall panel and Alex tries not to care too much. It's not difficult.

As the elevator begins its slow, rocking ascent, Alex's stomach lurches violently and has him almost doubled over in a desperate attempt not to vomit on his own shoes.

 _Jesus._

He really doesn't think that the handful of beers he consumed last night justify the downright foul hangover he seems to have landed himself.

“Jeez, Alex, you look like-”

He hears George begin to comment but the sound is cut off sharply as the elevator jerks to a complete stop before free-falling what he guesses is probably several feet.

The side of Alex's head connects solidly with something hard and metallic and his left arm is trapped awkwardly beneath him where he has been unceremoniously dumped. Everything is silent suddenly, save for the laboured sound of his own breathing as he inhales and exhales in a fashion that can not be considered healthy.

He attempts a deep breath that is only partially successful and rolls slightly to his right. His left elbow screams its protests, loudly, but amid a cacophony of other agonies, it is almost a comforting distraction.

He hears George calling his name insistently, over and over and over again, and while Alex isn't entirely sure he has the energy to respond, he's still aware enough to realise that it'll be the only way to shut him the hell up.

He knows that for a goddamn _fact_.

“Yeah, I'm...” he rolls up into a sitting position and the slight change in altitude is all it takes. He hasn't eaten since lunchtime the day before, but bile and liquid are just as revolting as actual vomit.

He can't see it because it's pitch dark and his eyes are closed anyway, but he can sure as shit smell it.

And so, apparently, can George.

“Christ, Alex. What the hell?”

He mumbles out a soft _sorry,_ tries to mean it, kinda fails, and runs the back of his right hand across his mouth. His headache has intensified, he's got the mother of all hangovers from _hell,_ his left arm is fucked (and he's pretty sure that's the technical term) and his back and neck scream in protest every time he so much as contemplates movement.

Oh, and apparently the elevator has just shit its pants.

 _Fuck._

“Alex, seriously. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He can't see O'Malley, can't even really make out a vague silhouette, but he hears movement across from him and suddenly there are hot fingers clamped around his bent knee. He'd laugh if he wasn't so completely convinced that that his head was about to explode.

“Scared of the dark, O'Malley?” he grunts instead.

“Alex, I mean it. Did you hit your head? Are you okay?”

There is genuine concern in his voice and it seems almost misplaced until Alex remembers that it's George.

 _George O'Malley._ Patron saint.

He groans out a _mmm hmmm_ that he absolutely does not mean and the fingers around his knee are suddenly working their way across his face, through his hair, over his lips, around his ears and _what the fuck?_

“I don't think you're bleeding...”

Oh.

“...but you _are_ burning up.”

“Huh...”

“Do you feel okay?”

No, abso-fucking-lutely not even close.

“Yeah... I'm okay. My arm is stuffed though. Landed on it...”

“Oh... want me to-”

“Do not even think about touching it, O'Malley...”

“Okay, okay... sheesh...”

There is more muffled scuffling as Alex figures George moves back to lean against the door. He has visions of it opening suddenly and of George falling out, it makes his lips curve into an unseen smirk that hurts his head, so he stops.

The small space they're confined in is stifling suddenly and Alex really wishes that George hadn't pointed out he was burning up because... holy hell. It's _hot_. He thinks his eyes slide closed again, but he can't be sure that they were ever open to start with and, really, it makes no difference. He wonders if George has called anyone to let them know they're stuck. He can't remember hearing anything, but he also can't really remember getting _into_ the elevator either so he doesn't know.

His head starts to tilt forward until flashes of white hot agony lance through his neck and across his shoulder blades and steal his breath. He straightens again, and the pain returns. He can't remember hurting this much since a wresting match back in college went seriously south and landed him in the hospital for three days, and while the doctor in him _knows_ that he hasn't wrestled for years and that pain like this doesn't just spontaneously appear, the kinda drowsy and definitely confused person he is right now can't even begin to put the pieces together into any semblance of sense and order.

“Alex, don't go to sleep...”

“Hmmm...?”

“Don't go to sleep, you can't go to sleep, sleep is bad, very, very bad...”

And, no it's not. Sleep is so, very, very good...

“Alex! Open your eyes.”

He complies because the voice is commanding and kinda, sorta sounds a bit like his father used to and obeying him was always a conditioned response.

Until it wasn't.

His eyelids slide to meet each other once again and George must know, like George seems to know everything about him these days, including the fact that elevators really freak him the fuck out. Always have done. Irrational, completely, but also true.

“Alex, keep your eyes open...” and how he can even tell that they were closing again, Alex has no idea. He's pretty sure the lights are still out.

“...talk to me. Tell me one interesting thing about you that you think I would never, ever guess.”

Why the hell would he... “when I was eight I had a kitten called Spiderman.”

Oh, maybe he would.

George chuckles softly and the sound tingles the nerves in Alex's fingertips. He wonders, fleetingly, if George laughs often and makes a vow to listen a little more carefully in the future.

“Oh, awesome. We only ever had dogs. I don't think my mom would have trusted my brothers with a kitten, at least dogs can kind of look after themselves... and fight back if they have to...”

George's voice trails off as Alex moans through a wave of nausea. He really wants to lay down but he doesn't think he can move and he's not entirely sure that George will let him anyhow. He raises his right hand up to his neck and kneads at the muscles there, they're stiff beyond belief and his hair is slick with sweat and deep inside him somewhere, in the part of his brain that actually listened during med. school classes that _didn't_ involve surgical cases, alarm bells are starting to chime.

“O'Malley...”

His voice sounds slurred, like maybe he's still a little drunk, but the beers where literally _hours_ ago and his favourite colour is green and he really likes frogs and he thinks he might have truly loved Izzie once.

Maybe.

“Yeah, Alex?”

“I think...” he trails off, can't quite find the words to finish the sentence because he's really not sure at all what he thinks anymore.

About anything.

“What do you think?”

“I think...” he tries again. Doesn't get any further.

“Alex?”

There is muffled movement again, but it's background noise over the staccato beat of his own heart in his chest. Cool pressure encircles his wrist as fingertips are pressed to his pulse point. George swears. George _never_ swears.

It must be bad.

“Alex? Talk to me. What do you think?”

There is a hand on the side of his face, it's kinda cool but burning hot at the same time and he leans into it a little. Just a little.

And it's not girlie at all.

“Alex, what do you think?”

“I think I'm sick...”

“I know, I can see that...” which he obviously can't because, duh... it's dark. “Alex, tell me what's wrong... I know you hurt your arm, but what else? Why are you sick?”

The voice is oddly compelling, hypnotising. Its cadence rises and falls, blurs in and out and out and in...

“Alex! Concentrate!”

He blinks rapidly, enough to confirm his suspicions about the dark, but sweat stings his eyes so he scrunches them closed again with a sigh.

“Okay. Concentrating...”

“Good. Now, tell me your symptoms... I can tell you're tachy and febrile and...” but he loses Alex with the med speak, despite the fact that he knows it all inside out.

Usually.

“I don't really like cheese all that much...”

“Karev, crap. Alex, I need you to concentrate... Okay, yes or no answers... can you do that?”

Probably not.

“Yeah...”

“Okay, good. Does your throat hurt?”

“No.” _Good start_ he thinks in a silent congratulations to himself.

“Do you have a headache?”

“God almighty, yes...”

“Only since you hit your head, or from before then?”

Alex can't remember hitting his head but he feels like he's had the headache his whole life so he guesses _before then_ and hopes it's true.

“I'm guessing it's a yes for nausea, if the puddle beside you is anything to go by...”

“Puddle o'what?”

“Puddle of freakin' beer is what it smells like... _jesus_...”

“Hmmph...”

“Next time you decide to get yourself trapped in an elevator, you should really consider what you drank the night before... oh, and you should bring supplies, you should definitely bring supplies...”

“You're trapped in here, too. Where are your supplies?”

“I don't need supplies...”

But Alex is so beyond the deciphering of cryptic clues.

It's silent for a while after that. Maybe for minutes, maybe for hours. Time and the rate at which it's elapsing have lost all manner of meaning. Alex shudders back to awareness when hands cup his chin and as his eyes fly open, startled he can almost swear that, for a second, he can actually see George's face.

“Alex, you need to breathe slower than that, and deeper... it's gonna be okay, but you have to breathe properly, it's all over if you don't breathe properly...”

And he's trying, he really is. But it's still so freaking _hot_ , and he can't even feel his left arm anymore, let alone move it and he's too scared to try and look at it incase it's simply gone.

Up and left him while he was off dreaming about the ocean and his Homer Simpson slippers and Cristina Yang beating him in a hotdog eating contest.

Again.

“Alex? You need to listen to me, okay?”

He nods internally and on some level he knows that that's really not gonna cut it, but it's all he can manage right now and it will have to do. Fingers settle on his wrist again and Alex doesn't need a 007 surgeon to tell him that his heart rate is absolutely and completely out of control.

“'s wrong with me?” he slurs, and he hopes to God it doesn't sound as pathetic and weak out loud as it does inside his own head.

But he guesses that it probably does and so he figures he might as well just give it up altogether.

“Open the doors, George... please, _please_ , open the fucking doors...”

“Alex... I can't, you know I can't...”

“ _Please, please, please, please, please_...”

“Alex, calm down... Alex, think about this...”

“Izzie, _IZZIE_!”

“Izzie's not here, Alex. Stop yelling, you're only making it worse, you need to-”

“ _IZZIE_!”

“Alex, jesus, she's not here...”

Alex laughs, doesn't even care about the pounding pulse inside his skull when he does so, “...she's _never_ fucking here, you're not here, no one's here... story of my fucking _life_...”

“Hey, hey, Alex. Look at me, don't start a pity party, now is so not the time for a pity party...” George's voice is so calm and sensible and patronizingly _obvious_ that it's almost contextually confusing because, when the hell is O'Malley ever the sensible one?

But then Alex remembers.

 _George O'Malley_. Patron Saint.

“Fuck.”

“Eloquent.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“I'm pretty sure we all got that the first time...”

“I think I'm gonna die in here...”

“What? No you're not... how pathetic do you think that would make me? No one's dying in here...”

“Nope, I'm pretty sure that I am...”

Pragmatism at it's best.

“I've been hungover before, O'Malley, this is no fucking hangover...”

“Well, I'd say that was obvious back about when the doors to this hell hole closed... you're a little slow on the uptake today, huh?”

“What are you even _doing_ here?”

“Umm, well... it's not like I can go anywhere else is it? In case you've forgotten, the elevator is stuck between floors and we are stuck in it...”

“No...no... there's more to it than that... I...” Alex runs the fingers of his right hand across his forehead, scrunches his eyes a little tighter and kneads at his temple... “... I can't quite figure it all out...”

“No shit, Sherlock. You can't even figure out what's wrong with you... where'd you get your medical degree anyway, bottom of a cereal box?”

“Yeah... right where you got your _face_...” and even he is aware enough to know that, as far as comebacks go, that one really, really sucked.

But, whatever. He's pretty sure George kneeled in his puke a few minutes ago, that's retribution enough right there...

“It's so hot in here...”

“I don't think it's that hot...”

“What? Are you serious? It's a freaking furnace-”

“No, it's a little warm, but it's really not that hot... Alex, you need to think a little harder about all of this...”

“I'm hot and you're not. That's easy. Australian chicks are hot, too. And they have weird ass accents and wear bikinis to the grocery store and I think I have to buy milk when I finish work today. Izzie will be mad as hell if I forget to buy the milk...” Alex trails off quietly because he's suddenly not sure if it is milk that he has to buy afterall.

Maybe it's butter.

George sighs, Alex doesn't hear it but he knows it happens anyway. Knows it intrinsically.

“I have a fever...”

“Good God. There is a brain in there afterall...”

“Shuddup... You know, I liked you a whole lot more when you didn't have such a smart mouth...”

“Bull, you _never_ liked me...”

“True, actually. Very true. Good point. You can't blame me though...”

“Why, what'd I ever do to you?”

“You punched me once...”

“You gave me syphilis!”

“Nuh huh, _Olivia_ gave you syphilis...”

“Only because _you_... you know what, nevermind, it doesn't even matter...”

“I have a headache.”

“Yes, so you keep telling me...”

“And I vomited.”

“Really? Wow, I would never have guessed... what with the lovely, rose-y aroma in here right now...” Alex hears George take an exaggerated deep breath, “... it's like a veritable field of flowers...”

He hopes he chokes on it. “Veritable? What the hell does that even mean, anyway...”

“I have no clue... I think it was the right word though, wasn't it...”

“My neck is really stiff and fucking sore...”

“Aaaand?”

“My arm is fucked?”

“I think your arm is a separate issue, genius...”

“Why'd you marry Torres?”

George coughs in surprise and the sound grates at Alex's frayed nerves. He makes a mental note to try and cut back on the random questioning.

“Do you still have the hots for Grey?”

Fails immediately.

“Jeez, you sure are chatty when you're sick. You're worse than the girls.”

“You _are_ a girl.”

“Chatty _and_ immature. Winning combination right there, no wonder you have to beat the women off with a stick.”

“No, no. Not beating women. You're not supposed to beat women...” but images of black eyes and split lips and shattered plates and lives disappearing down drains tell him that it happens anyway... every single goddamn day... “My dad used to beat my mom....”

“Yeah, I guess I've always figured that...”

“I hated him in the end. Drunk bastard,” and Alex is beginning to wonder who the hell it was that switched off his brain to mouth filter, because he's pretty fucking sure he's never said any of that to anyone.

Ever.

“Yep.”

And he's eternally grateful that George doesn't say anything more.

“Oh...”

“What?”

“Oh, craaaap...”

“Alex, what now?”

“Meningitis, I have fucking meningitis... from that kid, the one that was here with the fractured scapula and we didn't realise it was meningitis because we figured the symptoms were from the break and then... by then... oh...”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner...”

“George...”

“Mmm hmm?”

“Fuck, George... why didn't you _tell_ me?”

“And miss out on all this fun? It's not like I could do anything about it anyway... we're stuck, remember?”

Everything is starting to fall terrifyingly into place. How utterly shit he feels, the fact that a hangover really wasn't cutting it as a potential diagnosis, the heat, his head, his neck, the fact that nothing makes sense, even though, at the time, he kinda thinks that it does...

In and out, in and out, in and out... breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe...

He can't fucking breathe...

“Alex. Alex, don't. Don't freak out. It's gonna be okay, but you need to stay calm because you're just gonna make it worse... Alex, squeeze my hand...”

There are words moving all around him, bouncing off his skin, echoing in his ears. He can't decipher them, doesn't even bother trying after a while.

Seconds, minutes, hours.

He needs to get out of here now.

Alex struggles to get his feet underneath him, grabs at the bar above his head in an attempt to heave himself to standing, there are arms around his waist and they're not really doing much, not pushing, not pulling, not helping, just solid, unwavering pressure that he can't really figure out.

He's upright for maybe three seconds.

Maybe two and a half.

He's not sure if he blacks out because the freaking dark means he's been blacked out since forever. He does know that he's crying.

 _Jesus._

“Alex, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... please calm down. Just sit, take deep breaths, talk to me, Alex, talk to me. Doesn't matter what... tell me anything...”

“I want Izzie.”

“I know, I know you do. You can call her as soon as you get out of here, okay? I know you want her, I know you miss her...”

“You know everything... I really think you know everything...”

 _George O'Malley_. Patron Saint.

“I never used to, Alex... you know that. I never used to...” and Alex knows there's more to what George is saying than is immediately obvious, but the never-ending blackness is starting to grey a little around the edges and the only thing he wants more than Izzie right now is to get some goddamn sleep.

So he does.

 

 

  
**Part Two**   


 

“Alex? Jesus, Alex!”

Meredith turns furiously to the stunned maintenance worker, her eyes flashing with rage, her arms gesticulating wildly, as though they're seperate to the seething composure the rest of her is channelling.

“You... you _told_ me there was no one in there... you said... you _said_... I knew it, I _knew_ it...Alex!”

They've only managed to get the doors open a foot so far, but it's enough to release the stench of vomit and sweat and all manner of other unspeakable fluids and Meredith is so completely and utterly _terrified_ that she can barely see straight.

A shaft of light is swathing Alex in an eerie glow, he's slumped upright but a little to left, as though leaning his head against an invisible shoulder. His face is slick with sweat, beads of it are gathering on his chin before freefalling to the front of his shirt and it's only the fact that Meredith is fairly certain corpses don't actively sweat that she's able to function at all.

She reaches a hand through the gap, pushes in up to her shoulder and then some but is still feet too short of reaching him.

“Alex! Alex, open your eyes, please, Alex, please...” she's pleading and crying and only vaguely aware of a body above her, attempting to use brute force to shove the doors open enough that she can slide in.

Supplies are steadily stockpiling beside her, saline, crash cart, ambu bag, oxygen canister. Someone, not her, most definitely not her, is still capable of doing their job. She makes a mental note to thank them later.

She grabs for a crepe bandage that has materialised along with everything else and hefts it at Alex, it bounces off his forehead and Meredith feels awful doing it but she sags with relief at the same time because Alex's eyes drift open and stare right at her. They're glazed and fever bright but they're open and the rest... all of that?

All of that they can fix.

“Alex, can you hear me?”

“Mere?”

“Yes, Alex, it's me, it's Meredith,” and the salt of tears she didn't even know she was crying burn at her lips. “We didn't know where you were. Alex, you didn't use the emergency phone. We didn't know you were in there... I'm so sorry we took so long...”

“Where's O'Malley gone?”

“What? Alex? It's okay... we're gonna get you out...”

“No...” He's agitated now, eyes rolling around in his head, trying to look but unable to move to do it properly, “... George?”

“Mere... George was here too... George O'Malley. He, George, he said he thinks I have meningitis and... crap... Mere...”

“Alex, it's okay...”

“Where's George?” And he's aware that he must sound pathetic, and more than a little whiny, but he's sick of feeling like any minute he's about to die...

“Mere, meningitis... that... you can die from that shit...”

“You're not dying, Alex.”

No goddamn way.

“Izzie didn't die...”

“No, no she didn't... and you're not going to either...”

“But she left...”

“Alex, we're getting you out, okay... two more minutes...”

“I think maybe O'Malley died...”

“Yeah, Alex. Yeah, he did...”

“But he told me I have meningitis... He sat... right there against the door... I think I thought he was gonna fall out, I think I thought it was funny...”

“It's okay, I promise it's okay now...” she looks up at the body above her, notices for the first time that it's Mark and repeats her words, pointedly, up at him, “... I promise it's okay now...”

Mark nods back and with the help of the maintenance worker that Meredith is still too irrationally furious with to acknowledge with anything other than scathing threats of bodily harm, they manage to get the doors prised open enough that Meredith can twist her torso sideways and maneuver her way into the body of the elevator.

She screams at someone behind her, at anyone who'll listen, to page Cristina and, as an immediate afterthought, adds Lexie too. She's not entirely sure what having them there will change, probably not a damn thing, but in a world where each other is all that they have left, she needs them paged all the same.

Alex is unconscious again by the time she gets to him. Head hanging forward, eyes closed. The door has been propped open to stop it sliding shut again as it seems so determined to do, and there's enough light in there now that she can almost see what she's doing.

Now, if only she could get rid of the freaking tears, she'd be set.

She has a mask over Alex's nose and mouth and is dragging him backwards across the soiled elevator floor to the opening when Cristina and Lexie both materialise. They shout questions at her and panic and Cristina orders someone to do something in a wholeheartedly inappropriate and totally Cristina manner that Meredith can't quite decipher but is instantly comforted by nonetheless.

The knowledge that they're there, that Cristina and Lexie are _there_ , is all that she needs and so she ignores them completely, concentrates solely on getting Alex the hell out of where he's been trapped for God knows how long.

The elevator has come to a stop about a foot and a half from level and Mark and Lexie help her ease Alex out and down without causing too much further trauma. Bailey rounds the corner only seconds later, drawn by all the commotion. She's instantly in control and despite the fact that Meredith can't quite bring herself to relinquish it initially, she knows, most definitely, that Bailey is also one of them and that she has Alex's back just as much as Meredith ever could.

A hand grabs at hers and she turns to face the body it's attached to.

Cristina.

Her mouth is agape and she's looking at Meredith like she has all the answers she could ever need, and then some.

“He said... he thinks...” Meredith swallows harshly around the solid lump of her heart, lodged high in the back of her throat and runs the palm of her hand, trembling and sweaty, across her lips, “... he said George was in there with him...”

It's all she can think of to say.

The End


End file.
